


The Hollow Living Room

by UnderMyCitadel



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: F/M, Multi, Rock Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderMyCitadel/pseuds/UnderMyCitadel
Summary: In Which Mick Jagger writes a song for a young American heiress.





	The Hollow Living Room

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr saw it first

And I still remember her well from that dull and tedious day. The glaze in the air was warm and damp, perhaps a rain had fallen the night before, and the hot air was soaking up the dewdrops in the grass. In the prime of the room where the blinds let in enough light to shed shine into the entire room. I could see the dust floating midair apart from my cigarette smoke in the light that poured through the scarcely parted blinds. The hardwood was an ash color and brought me back to my cigarette’s draw every time I went to take a puff but was cool unlike it, yet, as unwelcoming as such. And the walls were still fresh with paint. A walnut oil mixture of white we painted over the yellowed worn in white from the house’s previous owner. Other decorations were hardly acceptable for what I thought my guest deserved; dark baroque fireplace, long glass coffee table atop a long fur rug, a embroidered couch, again, blessed with great length, and two wooden chairs opposite the couch embroidered with texture. Was I supposed to have shipped mountains of furniture, fixtures, and fittings the moment I bought it or was I to foresee the visitor days before her arrival to prepare as best I saw I should? I should have, should I have? Because I was the one who invited her, however, I did not she would, understanding her social class versus mine.

I woke up earlier than usual. Once every blue moon, when the Fall made everything chilly, my alarm clock would sneak around my schedule and wake me with its unrelenting clashing of two metals but I would somehow wake before it and stammer to deactivate the alarm before ever ruining my mood. But three-thirty seven was a far cry from six-thirty, so what was I to do in my spare three hours before the day starts for every person around me? My tired gait pulled me past the light switch of my bedroom, through the narrow hall, over ice-wooded floorboards, down the metal stepped staircase that felt like hours of stairs, and to the hollow living room. There, over my lack of furnishing lay a packet of ground beans to last two servings. Coffee. I made a cup with the warm water of the tap. I brought it with me to the couch in the living room where I could barely see the cup in front of my face. Luckily I had the sense to light the gladly working fireplace pre-supplied with wood fit for burning. From there, it was a bunch of sitting. Sitting and waiting for three hours to pass. There were no clocks around. I hadn’t bought any yet but I knew that around six that the sun said hello, so I would wait for the sunlight to replace the need for the fireplace.

I went back to bed after the coffee and was rather disappointed by its false advertisement on the packaging. “’Guaranteed to wake your eyes’,” I remembered the packaging’s claim after waking up four hours later. “’Guaranteed’ my ass,” I grumbled, wiping the sleep from my eyes. My fingers raked my itchy top and laced easily through the tangles near the ends of my hair almost overdue for a trim. Had my fringe pass my lips, I would have tended to them the moment I noticed, but to the media, it was a very ‘rock and roll style’. Whatever that meant. In the way of my peripheral lay a stack of crumbled neatly folded papers and notes. There were others as well, such as boxes taped tenderly, bubble wrap over unpackaged items of the miscellaneous category that could have easily peaked my interest as to what stood underneath the coating but another odd paper stood out. I rubbed my eyes a final time before breaking the bed to pick up the paper and remember when I’d jotted whatever on it. I couldn’t comprehend why I wrote down with a scratchy pen the telephone number of a girl named Jolie. I thought nothing of it, even scrunched my face over the responsibility of another slip of paper with the phone number belonging to a girl I would not remember in two weeks. Figuring it was another part of the job, I crumbled the paper up and tossed it aside anywhere on the floor before climbing back onto my space in the bed. My lack of clothing, that being underwear, was compensated by the thick blanket on the mattress. It felt like the pressures of everything was away. The remaining drowsiness was massaging my shoulders, and for a while, I felt good. Then I remembered where she came from and was jolted from a sudden sleep. I couldn’t explain why my heart was racing but I felt an urge of fear. That feeling drew me to my knees on the hardwood where I looked through nothingness to retrieve the paper. Once the slip was in my possession I rushed to press and flatten it so I could read out the entire name.

The number became more familiar as I read and reread it over again in my head. “760-588-8633,” I read aloud. My eyes tread up the paper a bit and I followed suit with the name that was causing me the utmost stress. “Jolie Quar-Quar, what the fuck? Qurratul Ann- Ayn?” My hopelessness was close to pathetic. Besides the first name, the only other part of the entirely too long name was the surname; Preity. Realization overpowered by drowsy, eventually clearing a path for some train of thought. It came clear. Preity, she was, and pretty, was she. I remembered at once her Preity-ness from our most recent encounter, almost one week past this morning. I went back deeper, father to remember that month we’d first met eyes. But I couldn’t. Pulling back to deeper concentration, I pulled my knees under my chin and held them together with the glue that was my overlapping arms. In that fetal position, although comfortable, was doing nothing for my memory. I set aside the paper and rose from the bed, because what good would it do me to hold onto something I was probably too in over my head to reconcile with? A number of occasions of which this happened were far too often. Girls came and went, most of them were often basic looking girls with undeveloped blossoms for their age. Jolie is like all the rest, I thought, trying to convince myself before I fell into the trap was I warned about many times by my dear friends and apparent ‘experts at the game’. I wouldn’t allow myself the strain of another Chrissy Shrimpton. The day already commenced, and I was past it, or, I had to be past it because past my foggy remembrance of Jolie’s distant features, I did remember the date of my studio sessions that were to take place less than two hours from now. I raised my arms over my head and stretched them over my head until I felt the satisfying pop of my joints. If I had the sense to throw out the paper, I would have. But unfortunately, I was too stubborn to let go the mystery that was Jolie, But I could only go so far.

The day wouldn’t wait for me to remember the woman from whenever before that morning, so I pushed aside my hesitation and took care of my hygiene ritual. I had to lump it for a cold shower because no phone calls had been made yet, brush my teeth with peroxide because ‘where were my things?’, and wait for my hair to air dry and get poofy because that’s just how it came to be. Somewhere in a box marked ‘Snazz’, I plucked out my outfit. I chose a gray turtleneck, khaki trousers, and my puffy coat for the walk to the studio not far at all from where I lived. My only concern was not getting pneumonia from the few blocks I would pass and the terribly strong wind raping the air, I slipped on my shoes, and the slip of paper into my pocket before leaving. I would be sure to ask my mates if they had any recollection of her to spare.

We had great fun that day. I remember because not an ounce of work had been done. We were not in a hurry to record, no deadlines were needed to be matched. For once we had free time to do what we pleased. Practicing covers were the easiest, as you may tell because there was little to no thinking involved. Sure a bit of pizazz and a little change to your vocals were necessary so you wouldn’t be considered a poser, but that time was much too far into the future to worry about, I could have gotten drunk and made a mistake but instead, I wanted to pick the brains of my companions. Jolie was burning a hole in my pocket, practically begging the question, ‘Who am I?’ I was resting easily on a foam padded rolling chair by the mixing tables, tempted by the important looking buttons that lay scattered on the surface. To the left of me was the door that enclosed the recording area that I often locked myself in to get just the right sound or record mimicking vocals of Little Richard, and one time, record Andrew’s Blues. Not a soul passed by there that day, Not even to light a joint in privacy. And to my right was a very narrow Keith Richards. He was not occupied, rather, he stood at the replica platinum albums on the wall just staring. Staring at nothing but the thin layer of dust overtop the faux vinyl. There was no point in waiting, then, we were due for another seven hour day, and so I popped the question.

“Keith,” I established my ethos, “c’mere for a bit,”

He stayed fixed to the wall for a while, and I began tot think he’d dodged my attention entirely at his lack thereof, but not to my dismay, he came eventually, sporting an easy smirk. Obviously, he’d partaken in the grass that had been passed around. And about the only thing fun about the boring day was the herb. “What man?” he asked, extending his vowels. “I was just checking out that paint dry. Fucking fantastic,” he held up an ‘okay,’ gesture with his hand calloused from the day before. I knew his tolerance was high enough for me to pick his brain. So I did with as much care as a friend desperately seeking out information.

I groped inside my pocket for the paper and held it before his eyes. He blinked one time, then another, then pulled my hand closer into his peripheral, his hand nearly scraping mine clear to blood. “Hmm…,” he ingested the name and number, probably remembering where he’d seen it before. “…I think…isn’t this…Jolie?” ‘Duh,’ I wanted to say but refrained. It was good, though. He was onto something, and it was good. So I let it be.

“Yeah, but, but do you know where you know her from? You have a good memory. Sure you can bring up a date.”

“Hmm… From what I can recall, we met the bird last week at that fucking art auction or whatever the fuck it was Robert Fraser hosted.” I waited for him to continue but he stopped as if the bit of information he told was all he had memorized. He looked satisfied with his answer.

“…and?” I beckoned my hand in my lap.

“…and?” he mimicked.

“Do you by any chance remember how-” I plucked the paper, “this fell into my possession?”

“How could I forget it? That party was a gas.”

“Tell me about the girl, then. I could care less about the bloody party.”

Keith shifted his weight after taking the paper in his palm. And he told me the story, of which I had no recollection of ever being present in the fictional tale of how I supposedly met Jolie. The day would not last forever, and though I could definitely waste the day in the studio, it was too much of a bore for me to stay past due. I walked home. And it wasn’t until fifty-seven steps in the direction of my house that I was caught dead in my tracks. In the center of the concrete tile, I stood paralyzed with realization. Suddenly it was all clear to me, the picture, the number, the girl, everything was vivid in my head and once again, I knew.

She was at the art auction and I’d spotted her. it was the second floor of the venue where the sculptures and such were poised for our viewing pleasures. In her hand was a sparkling cider, and on her body was a cream colored silky opulent wrap dress. Her features were dewy and soft and the lips I saw painted the purest red drew me in. I acknowledged my own attractiveness and knew she would be open to talking to me. I was no stranger to the crowdś reactions at our performances. Iḿ a ladies man, and if the trait is something out of manipulation then you are not a very good one. I was the manipulator, the operator behind the grand scheme of my image. Every move was calculated, every word carefully placed, and every glance was littered with the boyish charm that would come to sexualize me later.

I followed her to the balcony where I found her looking quite dramatically out into the night stars. She turned around almost as my first foot made a tap onto the marble. I didn’t expect for her to speak. She may have walked away in embarrassment and I would have been okay with that, but for some odd reason, she had the audacity to give me the time of day. Her hands move from her front, interlocked, to the ledge of the balcony, smoothing over the surface. “Hi,” she said. And like a breath of fresh air, her voice fed me. “Aren’t you that Jagger fellow I’ve been hearing on the radio so often?”

“In the flesh… And who might you be?” I invited myself further beyond the golden arches of the doorway for an easy conversation with the pretty thing.

“You haven’t heard of my family?” she asked, raising a brow. “Obviously I must show my face more often,” she sprouted a grin with her lips full of collegian. By then, word went like a revolving door about my pump kissers, and hers were well over mine in size. The thought came where she may have come from, as I never saw the average groupie with lips as vivacious as hers. But then again, she was no groupie, but apparently of an importance by her word.

“I can’t say that I have. What may I know them by?”

“Um…” she swirled her tongue in her mouth, “have you heard of Frank Lloyd Wright?”

Dumbfounded, I said, “no.” Luckily, she didn’t mind.

“He was a famous architect and created a bunch of them. My mom married his son and was drew into a fortune. I don’t know how it works, honestly, but I’m not exactly supposed to worry about that right now.”

“How old are you?”

“Just turned twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“I should know that by now. My littler sisters are actually obsessed with you.”

“Really?” I didn’t care. Only about her, and wanted nothing more than to hear her.

“Yeah, I don’t see why, though.” The tease in her soubrette voice was enjoyable despite the playful puncture in my side. Still, I didn’t want a dry conversation.

“Why is that?” I continued with the questioning.

“Oh, please. Don’t be so coy, Mick.” Jolie dipped her head back to laugh. “You’ve grown a bit of a reputation for yourself there.”

“Oh please,” I mirrored, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But I did. I was no stranger to the media, as she probably was no stranger to chunks of change in the purse of her mother. But anything to on the talk. “What harm would it do for you to be my girl?”

Her eyes widened. Taken aback was she, and folded were her arms. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you! Do you know what that could do to my family’s reputation? To meddle with yours? I’m sorry Jagger, but I already know your intentions.” And I have to say, those beautiful words stuck to me. And as she handed me the slip of paper out of mid-air, she whispered another phrase that once I remembered burned through me. “Call me when you’ve got your act together.”

Many nights I spent since then awake, thinking of a way to redeem myself. I had no form of talent besides music and business talk with older Americans, and I knew my verbal skills would lead me to no avail. Instead of talking her into being with me I opted for what paid the bills and the space for the venues some nights. I would write to her from my heart a song from what I thought of her. What little I knew of her, I wrote carefully, skillfully on an ink blotted notepad. Many times I restarted in order to get it perfect and left it untitled, for I did not know how to spell her last name and did not think of peeking at the paper to copy it down. When I was satisfied with my poem, I phoned her to invite her for a cup of tea. I did not tell her of my intentions, although she may have assumed so as the night of our first meeting, however, I was not fibbing about the promise of tea and flowing conversation. That is if I could clear my mind of doubt and grit. And once that day came, I sat in my bare living room to meet her once again. To prove to her that I was not some bloke with a sly smile and bad boy moves. Because that was a strict rule. The one I was never to ignore until after our final goodbye.


End file.
